


Battleships

by yoshi_bear



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dry Humor, F/F, F/M, Horse Noose Discord, I add more characters for every chapter, M/M, Memes, Multi, terrible puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:19:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshi_bear/pseuds/yoshi_bear
Summary: 40 years ago, alien groups known as the Memeens invaded Earth and tore away control of the land from the humans. Those who survived retreated to the safety of the sea, where they stand united to one day fight and win back control of their home. They also fight a lot of sexual tension tho. And also a lot of stress.Rating may up to Explicit in later chapters.





	1. Old Man Who Wants to Get Laid

**Author's Note:**

> There's some straight af foreplay in this chapter, just a warning.

“40 years,” the man in the dark green coat grasped onto the edge of the table and stood abruptly, drawing everybody’s eyes to the head of the table.

Admiral Cyclone stared firmly at each and everybody in the room. He took a step back and pressed on the handheld tablet on the table. The lights dimmed, and a 3D projection of the world map appears. More than half of the Earth’s land is cracked and deserted, shows the notes on the projection.

“It has been 40 years since _The Memeening_ ,” Cyclone continued. “40 years since mankind have had to retreat to the seas. The world is cracked where these aliens lay. _Home_ is all but lost to us.”

At the right edge of the table, furthest away from Cyclone, Clone Commander Dylan fidgeted. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table, knuckles to his chin. His fists are clenched tight, nails digging into the palm of his hands.

“This, we all know,” Dylan spoke back at Cyclone. “What is your purpose for gathering us here?”

Cyclone exhaled. He coughed softly. Turning his head up, he gave a long stare at Dylan before relaxing and moving his hand up to the temples of his forehead.

“It is good to see you all made it here. Alive. We’ve not been together like this for a long time,” he replied, his voice tender.

“We’ve defended our seas against the Memeens,” the door opened, and everyone turned. Commander Scaro entered the room decked in a full blue suit. His eyes were dry, and though his face showed no emotion, his displeasure was apparent to everybody in the room. He threw a hat on the table--a captain’s hat--and took his seat.

“But now, we must be upfront. More than half of Earth is already lost. Captain Fobi is dead,” he gripped onto the edges of the table. “If we do not act to fight against the aliens now, it may be too late.”

Cyclone slammed his hands onto the table, eyes filled with determination.“For so long we have been trapped out at sea. To think now, that we’ve grown so far to stand against the Memeens… we will not falter! Even should it end in fire, it would be my absolute greatest honor--to be going down with you all.”

A snort was heard on the left side of the table, next to Commander Scaro.

“Well we can’t fail now, can we?”

“What?” Admiral Cyclone turned to the lady, who had a rather smug grin on her face.

Lieutenant Luna snickered, “I don’t know about going down with you, think I’d prefer to go down _on_ you.”

A moment of silence traveled across the table before more snorts were heard. A few _“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Luna,”_ and _“Damn, that was smooth,”_ echoed across the room in whispers. Commander Dylan looked conflicted on whether he should be critical or impressed that Luna was seducing the admiral at the situation table, while Commander Scaro had his head down into the palm of his hands, wheezing while his shoulders shook delicately.

Admiral Cyclone froze at Luna’s remark, “A-aah…”

He flushed bright red, images of Luna- _-Luna, out of all people-_ -going down on him…doing all sorts of ridiculous thin--“A-aaah…tha-that…”

He took one step back, and then took another. More images flooded into his mind, and his body suddenly felt rather warm. He sighed, slowly sliding away from the cracking crowd before him. He shook his head, trying to climb his way out of his own terribly imaginative mind, before taking another few steps back and--

_THWAP!_

The back of his head crashed into the wall, jumping him back to reality. The room flooded with laughter, with Commander Scaro having the loudest laugh of them all. Cyclone flushed, quickly trying to regain his balance and bumbled onto his chair. He let his hair and hands covered his face, too embarrassed to really do anything else.

Vice Admiral Weaveyboo switched the lights on and walked over. He patted Cyclone’s back for assurance, smiling smugly himself, “Let loose a little. We all came here to check on you anyways, Admiral.”

“Haha…” Cyclone laughed nervously, appreciative of Weavey’s assurance. “It certainly has been a long time since we’ve all seen each other. I’m glad to see you here too.”

Weavey nodded in reply and laughed. He pulled his hand up to the back of Cyclone’s head, leaning in, “I’d leave the indulging to Luna, though. No need to be serving yourself tonight.”

“........O-oh no. No no no no, that was not necessary, jesus fucking christ Weavey, oh--” he cut himself off and face-planted his own head on to the table, sending the others into another roar of laughter. He ruffled his own hair furiously and shook his head. With a massive groan, he banged his head onto the surface of the table, looked back up at the crowd in front of him, and proceeded to pass out.

“Here lies the admiral,” Commander Scaro choked in giggles. “Defeated.” 

Weaveyboo cackled while Luna, who was already laughing, wheezed further. The gang continued the high spirits all through the day, catching up on each other and telling stories of monsters out in the mainlands.

* * *

 

Admiral Cyclone woke in his own quarters a few hours later, shaken by the afternoon light coming through the window. He rose from his bed and stretched, all while his mind was configuring to what had been happening before his slumber. If he was lucky, he probably didn’t have that much to do, and--

He stopped thinking as soon as all the memories flooded into his head. One of a very particular lady striking him down in the middle of a very serious situational meeting. He sulked, drooping his hair down to his face and feeling terribly flustered.

 _Aggghh._ He groaned internally, flipping the sheets back over his head. The world had a way of messing with him, he guessed. And today was just a particularly crazy day. It was tradition for all his comrades to come to the mothership every year--but this year was different, because they were going to stay. Now that the world conflict between the humans and the Memeens were somewhat less of a mess, he and his commanders had much to do. Apparently, that included partying and rejoicing for a few days before any training starts at all.

He was completely grateful to see the crew back together, but he was also completely dreading how many times they were going to embarrass him, yet again. He sighed, rolling over so his front laid on the bed and his face was firmly pressed onto the pillow. The stunt this morning was enough for him already. This happened every year-- _every year!--_ and he let it go every single time. He supposed it was no surprise, considering they only got together once a year. The union was always dearly valued, as they were incredibly close friends.

Of course, an admiral’s job entitles more work than fun. The Memeens were planning something big on the abandoned islands off of the East Coast. He’d seen the reports: a giant factory manufacturing some sort of colossal bioweapon. He grimaced, remembering the swirl of red cloudy lights and the breaking grounds as he was sailing away, helpless to do anything else for his own nation. The East Continent had been his home for so long, he might as well have died along with it when it came down. Yet, fate had a funny way with messing with his life. He turned to the window, eyes half-lidded and peering over at the sunset. He was here, now, out in the deep oceans overlooking the South Coast, on this ship--the only place he could call home.

Whatever those damn Memeens were plotting, they can be sure they were going to pay.

He should really get up and looked after his own crew, but there were at least 10 other lieutenants and higher ranks on this ship that they could go to. He moved over, resting on his side and swinging his blanket over his head. Afternoon rests like these were occasional for him, anyways. He’d like to get some good shut-eye in before he was meant to be unifying his friends and his forces and invoking war against an alien race. For today, he could just pretend to be like any other young man, spending most of their daytime in leisure and their bedtime in pleasure.

_Not to mention, she was here and here to stay for a while…_

He chuckled, burying his face deeper into his pillow until he softly drifted away.

* * *

 

_Knock, knock. Knock knock. KNOCK. BANG BA---_

Cyclone shot up, overwhelmed and abruptly waken. He rushed to his feet by the loud and sudden banging on the door. His fingers grasped around the handle, and he hesitated just for a second, before grasping the handle and pulling open the door.

“Kachowdy,” Luna waved.

Cyclone was almost tempted to shut the door.

“Hey,” he replied, leaning on the door for support and eyes looking in no particular direction. Luna was out of her formal uniform now. The pants remained, but she seemed to have switched out the rest of her attire for a sweater and some slippers. A part of his head (the part he was not very proud of) whistled to him, marvelling at how _easy it would be to yank those clothes all off of--_

“So!” he coughed lightly, cutting the awkward silence and looking directly at her. He loosened his grip on the door handle and left an opening, eyeing Luna and his bed. “A-are you…?”

Her eyes traveled up to him for a second, lingering. He wore basic attire, sporting some pants and a white t-shirt. Yet, something about her gaze over his body made him feel _raw_ . _Exposed._ Had someone different cracked that sort of joke at the situation table, he would have let his dirty fixings go. Luna never joked without underlying intentions, he recalled, some good, some mediocre. Even Commander Scaro, a dear friend to him and a father-figure to her, was not above suggesting more than enough accounts of them together. He pouted. At times, he didn’t understand why the thought of them legitimately together flustered him so. He should be immune to her antics by now.

Cyclone sighed, reminiscing to the last time this happened where he was...letting loose. She’d busted in with no forewarning other than a text that had interrupted his own climax (to his dismay). But really, how could he have anticipated it? What kind of idiot would expect a “bby u wann sum fuk ;)” text to be serious?!

Regardless whether it was this time or the last time, however, the context hasn’t changed. He had neglected his own pleasures in his place as admiral, and they were building up on him. It was not that he couldn’t keep his own pants under control. A few quickies usually sufficed enough to hold down any urges, he noted.

But…

Here she is, now.

She took a step closer to him to linger in the space of his body heat. Luna did her best to contain her amusement. Had she been an outsider watching the admiral changing expressions and making weird faces in the timespan of a few seconds, she would have cracked up hard. Alas, however, she’d tortured him with enough embarrassment today. A smirk sprawled across her face, and she looked up at him, grinning from ear to ear. As he leaned in, her fingers darted across his jaw and up to his forehead.

 _Flick._ “Ow!”

Luna bursted into a fit of laughter, holding a hand to her mouth. She stepped back and threw into bouts of coughs and laughs--even hisses, all the while stuttering some “sorry, sorry!” between the spaces of her breath. Cycloned pulled back, hand to his forehead and laughing all the same. He was more stunned and confused, to be honest, but laughter was a contagious force not to be reckoned with. Luna grasped his arm into her elbow, yanking him out of his room and shutting the door.

“Dinnertime,” Luna blubbered in between her short breaths, voicing occasional giggles.

Cyclone huffed, realization dawning on his face and cheeks brightly reddened, “Oh... _oh._ Uhh...oops?”

She chuckled, patting onto his shoulder as they made their way out into the hallway, “Sorry, sorry. I should have clarified myself before--”

“No, I probably shouldn’t have be--”

“Hey, it ain’t your fault!”

“It probably is, at least to some degree, considering you were just standing there and I--”

“Well, if you aren’t too busy tonight, I don’t oppose to having _all my hands on your deck.”_

 _“--_ was just thinking all sorts of dirty th...oh for fuck’s sake, Luna,” he groaned exasperatedly, frustration from both his head and somewhere else. “You are not supposed to be fueling this.”

She chortled, “Someone’s gotta look after you, ya thirsty old man.”

“I’m only two years older than you!” Cyclone retorted. “Watch your words, miss. I’ll be demoting you the next chance I get.”

“Heeyy, you can’t pull rank!” replied Luna, giving him a light punch on the shoulder. He stopped and retaliated with a chop to her head, and she cackled, holding herself back from half pain half laughter. She sniffed and continued to walk, and he followed after her.

“My grandpa’s coming to visit soon,” she started. “He was pretty far up north when the Memeens invaded, but he’s making his way down now. I haven’t seen him in years.”

Cyclone looked back in awe, “And he’s survived all these years? Wow, for an old man, that’s pretty savage.”

At the mention of “old man,” Luna snickered, as if having an internal laugh to herself, “Yep. Old savage man, alright. He knows about earthquakes far better than any Memeen can start them.”

Cyclone paled, “I can only imagine.”

They stepped into the elevator and moved up to the dining area. Even from this far, the exciting noises of banter and hysterics made themselves clear onto Luna and Cyclone, who was standing on the other side of the ship and furthest from the action. They continued across the hallway, making their way to the feast at sunset.

“Oh!” Luna jumped. “Lady Emma will be coming, too! I really should get her some hot chocolate. Maybe some candles...I wonder if she likes those. I’m definitely getting a bear though. She’s into bears.”

“Pft,” Cyclone sniggered. “Lady Emma, representative of the BioChemical department? Do you not have any boundaries when it comes to your seducing?”

Luna stopped at the door, turning back and smugly smiling at him, “Naaahh, you know me. Plus, ain’t my fault she’s so pretty and cool!”

The door opened, and the strong aura of festivities bursted into their faces. Loud music hit him the instant he walked in. The grand room was crowded, and there were some number of people in the room who were...very scantily clad. He turned his eyes away from them and continued through the crowd, hand in hand with Luna. It was seriously hot. Part of him was glad that he didn’t bring along his vest, and he found that most others agreed. He looked to left side of the room, pleased at the gathering of familiar faces. All (if not most) of his crew and friends were there, laughing and cheering.

Luna bowed to him swiftly and dove straight into the buffet area, disappearing right under his watch. He rolled his eyes. One could expect no less from a lady who lived by the saying “food is life.” He made his way towards the dinner table, where Commander Scaro waved him over to an empty seat.

“Late, Cyclone!” Commander Scaro (a.k.a. Max) yelled over the noise of the crowd. Cyclone approached him and looked over to the edge of the table where the people had gathered, finding Dylan and Lieutenant Ryan arm wrestling it off while some ladies swooned in the background.

“Sorry, I forgot about this,” Cyclone replied, fishing for a free plate and digging for some food quickly before settling down in his chair.

“I take it you didn’t get any action then?” Max laughed and handed him a pint. “Judging from the look on your face.”

“Gee,” Cyclone responded, hand moving up to his face. “Is it honestly that obvious? I swear…”

They both cheered and took their drink. Commander Maxie approached them both, grabbing them both on the shoulders as they sipped their drink. He looked at them both, “Nice and cold refreshing drinks you’ve got there, aren’t they? Picked them both up in the South Coast fortress. Quite a hit around here!”

They both nodded in reply and gave a thumbs up.

“Still layering up your pants, I see?” Max asked, peering at Maxie as he placed down his cup. Maxie grinned, patting on his pants.

“Hell yeah,” he said. “Got these off the South Coast too. Comfortable as hell.”

Cyclone snorted, “I’ve never understood your obsession with layering your pants. Don’t think I ever will.”

“Aaannd this is why I’m the maverick in bed around here, Admiral,” Maxie retorted, earning a punch in the shoulder and laugh from Max.

Cyclone coughed, judging eyes up at Maxie soon turning sarcastic and pleased, “Someone has to do the work around here for me.”

“That was so bad. Did you learn that from Luna? You totally learned that from Luna,” Maxie groaned, waving a hand at Cyclone’s face to signal that he wasn’t having any of it.

Cyclone snickered at him. Suddenly, the crowd roared and gathered closer, chanting either “Dylan!” or “Ryan!” as the match came close. They looked in that direction, but there was not much to see. The noise was far too loud, and it was far too crowded to spot the victor. From where the three of them sat, all they could here was a breath of anticipation and a rise in shouts as soon as it was over.

“Shame it won’t be enough to quench your thirst, eh?” Maxie shouted, pointed at the drink in Cyclone’s hand, and winked at him before slipping back into the crowd.

Cyclone spit out his drink and choked.

The dinner (now-turned party, as its fated yearly tradition went) drew out long into the night, with many of the younger lads quickly returning to their quarters. The sea breeze danced through the halls of the ship and the lights grew dim. Social noises quietened as soon as one reached to the top deck, and only those that remained on the higher levels at this time of night would be the watchmen with their small guiding flashlights. They patrolled their way back and forth on top of the ship rather lazily. Not that they would have had any reason to fear, with all their higher-ups on the ship and their location being mighty far away from the South Coast.

Out in the front of the ship, where it was dark and abandoned, Luna sat criss-crossed with a black blanket tucked over her head. She smiled smugly with her eyes closed while she meditated to herself. The moonlight shone above her, with a tiny slither of light pointing down at her feet. She held down her index fingers with her thumbs  and placed her hands on her lap. She exhaled, flushing her body and mind of unwanted thoughts. Slowly, she opened her eyes, taking in her quiet surroundings and listening to the soft laughter of the sea.

_“Meow meow mr--mraaw! NYAAH, meow me moo moo meowy, muh--”_

“This what you call meditating?” Cyclone interrupted, shaking his head and tucking his phone away. The moonbeam disappeared. Luna snorted, picking up her own phone with a “missed called” sign on it and sliding it back into her pocket. He approached her and dropped down by her side, sitting right next to her and laughing whole-heartedly. She threw the blanket over both of them, looking rather pleased with herself.

She placed her arm over his shoulder, casually accepting the warmth he was giving off. He started, “Since when was your ringtone a flurry of cats?”

“10 minutes ago. I considered going back to ‘how’s that ass feel’ again but...nah, this is cuter,” Luna answered. “Plus, y’know, I can’t scare the lady away.”

He turned his head to look at her, their noses touching, “Yeah?”

She looked at him and then scrunched her face into a grin, jumping and nuzzling right into his nose. He squeaked at the sudden pressure and leaned back. His hair darted right in front of his face, and she snickered gleefully at him as he fumbled his hands through his hair, moving the soft strands away from his face. He tilted back further to marvel at her, quality smugness and all, and she stared back at him, smiling ever so slightly. She took her arm off of his neck and pull away for a few seconds. He retaliated immediately, one hand grabbing the arm that left and the other circling around her waist.

She cackled in response, other hand tracing up over to his one on her waist, “Thirsty old man gets action after three months of negl--AGHH!”

Before she realized it, she was pulled into sitting on top of him. He slyly stared at her, his back sticking onto a nearby crate for support. The blanket sat on his stomach in a sloppy scrunch, and he laughed.

“That,” his breath was short and hitched from moving her up, “was probably the least sexiest scream I’ve ever heard from you.”

She sulked at him, nevertheless moving forward to rest her chin on his shoulder. Her nose dug into the side of his neck, lingering there. His arms were wrapped around her waist, hers around his. Their breathing harmonized in pacing, and they did nothing for a few minutes other than to savour the other’s warmth. His smell was almost undetectable, except for the soapy hint that released when she inhaled on the side of his neck. Her scent was much stronger, a softly minty musk and an unpleasant salty trace that reminded him of the sea.

Their peace was interrupted when she jerked out of her trance, suddenly moving her icy hands from his belt and slid up under his shirt into the sides of his body, delving all over his heated skin.

“A-Ahh,” a gasp escaped from his mouth before he could react to resist it. He scowled internally, displeased at the cheeky expression she wore on her face. Slowly, he perched himself up, shifting one hand on top of her waist and the other fishing its way into her pants, gripping her firm and bounc---

**_“GAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGHHHHHHH!”_ **

All of a sudden, a grandiose and grotesque fish monster sprang out of the water, sending a huge splash of ocean over both the Lieutenant and the Admiral. It roared so fierce the ship rocked back, waves washing above. Its dark blue scales glimmered in the moonlight, and it looked down with glowing red eyes at the ship. The water swirled higher and higher, creating a border around both the ship and the monster. Its shadow hanged over the ship as the sirens blew, while the two who were about to do the nasties were so shocked that they couldn’t move.

The hand jerked out of her butt and they both pulled away, staring at each other in disbelief and in awe at the mountain-sized fish-thing towering over them. Cyclone was quick to react, pulling out his weapon and barking orders at the crew behind him to call all members to deck and directing a high-class danger. Luna continued to stare and stood still for quite a long time before the Admiral shook her out of her shock.

“That...,” she said.

“That?” Cyclone asked, keeping his attention to her in between fiddling with the rushing chaos on his phone and barking at the people behind him to keep their shit together. More waves washed over them, and they had to cling on to the crate on deck for support as the ship rocked crazily. He latched on to Luna’s arm as she nearly fell, looking at her with an expression of disbelief.

She looked at him while fishing out her combat gloves, turning her expression from amazement into a smug grin, “THAT is like the biggest cockblocker I’ve ever seen!”

  
  



	2. I'd Go Gay for Fobi or Dylan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi i hope im doin good with the writing, thanks

 

**_Hours before the Devastation™..._ **

“That joke never gets old,” Commander Scaro (a.k.a. Max) strided out of the situation room, long after everyone else (and a passed out Cyclone) had left. He loosened his own tie for comfort, and started towards his temporary quarters.

“What,” a luminous shadow appeared and trailed behind him, laughing heartily. “The one where Luna disses the admiral, or the one where I’m dead?”

Max turned around stared at the ghost, tossing his hat back to him. Captain Fobiwa catched it with ease, and it turned back into a luminous, almost invisible cap. He instinctively wiped away the dust and placed it onto his head. Under the bright afternoon sun, Fobi was almost undetectable. The outline of his figure shimmered in the light, and he stepped into the shadow of Commander Scaro, giving a small salute.

“At ease, Captain,” he smirked, face laced with amusement. He swiveled back around with coat swishing for the dramatics, and began to walk away. He continued, “It’s funny because you ARE dead.”

“And everyone knows it,” Fobi replied, shaking his head in half disappointment and half humor. “Been a while since I’ve been like this, now that I think about it.”

They continued along the hallway and made a left, going towards the stairs leading to the upper decks. For a while, it is quiet, though not entirely uncomfortable. They walked together in perfect harmony, Commander Scaro in front and Captain Fobiwa tailing just by his shadow. Max made it look normal to have a ghost tagging on his back, something which Fobi learned to appreciate well after getting used to this almost transparent form.

“Almost 2 years already. Do you even remember what it was like to be human?” Max smiled lightly. Up the stairs he went, feet dragging behind him one by one. Behind him, Fobi stopped, pondering on the question he was given.

Max looked over his shoulders. He recalled some years ago, where they had been standing here at this very place, freshly intoxicated with adrenaline in the aftermath of war. There Fobi stood, hair glimmering in the sunlight, dusting his dark blue cap and placing it on his head with pride. They had spoke casually, and their congratulations hid well under the pretense of their greetings. Fobi, who was then promoted to Captain. Max, who was then promoted to Commander (and somewhere along there, earning the nickname Scaro). They smiled at each other, old times fueling the warmth in their stomach.

They must have stood there for quite some time, and Commander Dylan looked down at them, waiting for a while for the two men in front of him to wholly relinquish in their gay™ moment.

“...”

“...”

“...are you two done yet?” he surrendered rather quickly, coughing to signal his discomfort.

Fobi, surprised but unmoved at the sudden appearance of Dylan, turned up to look at the new commander who was approaching them from above. The sight before him flashed, and before him he saw silhouettes of his friends. Younger, cleaner, standing at this exact spot and judging each other.

His eyes twinkled, “Now this is just like the good old days, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Max continued up the stairs, beaming with amusement. “Nothing like three men coincidentally meeting with each other on the stairs where they had been some years ago. Incredibly nostalgic, and absolutely no sexual tension whatsoever.”

“I’m a ghost now,”/ “Don’t start!” Fobi and Dylan bursted out at the same time. Dylan sighed, making his way past both of them with steady steps, only pausing to resume his part of the conversation, hiding somewhat of a delightful nostalgic warmth behind his annoyed response. “I don’t swing that way, we’ve talked about this.”

“True,” Fobi replied, “but you’ve not had much luck with your ladies, either. Be honest.”

Dylan grumbled, walking away from both of his friends and shaking his head in embarrassment, “I’m doing my best, I’ll have you know!”

“I’d still go gay for you!” Max shouted, laughing in between his words.

Dylan did not take to this, “You’re infuriating!”

“We are number one,” Fobi muttered under his breath, loud enough for both of them to hear. Max bursted into a fit of laughter, and Dylan groaned forcefully, entering the situation room and clamping the door shut as quick as he had entered. Out of all times, dealing this now was not what he anticipated at all. He exhaled, making his way over to his seat on the table to search for what he had left.

Out in the upper decks, Fobi was less visible, though still right behind Commander Scaro. They cackled, thoroughly pleased at provoking Clone Commander Dylan. They made their way to the front of the ship, where Lieutenant Ryan had sat, intensely focusing on the moving symbols and flashing notes on the giant display above them. He stood up at their presence and saluted swiftly.

“You guys just missed Commander Dylan,” said Ryan. “Just left to say he forgot something down in the situation room earlier. He didn’t say what, but…”

He stopped short when he saw the spark in their eyes, “I’m guessing you caught him on the way up here?”

“You’d be right in your assumption, Lieutenant,” Fobi laughed, while Commander Scaro walked past his ghost friend to analyze the display above. He scanned through the paragraphs, and recognized their purpose fairly quickly. His hands shook and he came closer to the mainframe, checking the folders that were on the smaller monitors. His hands traced across the track records, the forms, and the time stamps.

“ _Past failed operations and those who went missing in action…_ ”, Max frowned, voicing back to Ryan. “What was he looking for?”

“He didn’t say,” Ryan answered. “Just wanted to search them up. He was reviewing successful operations before this too. Maybe just to refresh his memory, probably.”

Fobi cocked an eyebrow at Max and caught immediately onto what he was thinking, “He was only promoted a few months ago. I don’t recall him running any troubling operations. Why would he be interested in operations that he didn’t run?”

At that statement, Ryan scrunched his nose, carrying thoughts of his own. “Are you suggesting that he might be on the other side?”

“Tsi suggested that Dylan may have suffered from memory problems,” Max clenched his fists momentarily, staring at the rest of the records that were in front of him. Finally, he walked back to Ryan and Fobi, though his eyes seemed strict and confused.

“Tsi...as in Tsipahh, head of Central Intelligence? I don’t…” Ryan seemed unamused, his temples scrunching further.

“I don’t doubt my friend, Ryan,” said Commander Scaro, making his way to the exit. “I am worried for him and what lengths he may be pushing himself.”

Lieutenant Ryan dashed after him, “Wait, but the report on Team XD that you requeste--”

He said nothing more, giving an eye signal to Fobi. Shoving the cap on his head into his vest roughly, he rushed out the door with no further salutations. Captain Fobi followed suit after him. In a flash, the two disappeared, leaving the door to bounce back in itself.

* * *

 

Clone Commander Dylan sat alone in his appointed chair.

He pulled his right leg up onto his left thigh, fists clenched onto his propped up calf. On the table was a thumb-sized chip, or, well, what was left of it. The crispy bits that laid on the table appeared like they were burning. A dull wisp of purple smoke floated above the crushed chip. He inhaled and exhaled as if breath was traveling in and out of his gut, picking up some of the smoky bitter smell, and he granted the chip his seething attention.

His shoulders were rigid and so tense that they were almost shaking. His teeth were clenched and his focus was fierce. How many hours had it been since he sat here? There was no telling for sure, but he knew the sun probably had gone down. He wanted to stand up, get out, and continue about his day (or whatever of it he had left). Yet here he was, the voices growing stronger and stronger in his head.

_That chip was meant to be for the server room. Not in here. Not destroyed._

_“We are disappointed.”_

_You can be as disappointed as you need to be, fuckers._

_“We had a deal.”_

_“Goodness now, what have you done?”_

Dylan sat upright, digging his nails right into the palm of his hands and refusing to focus on anything else but the chip. Even with no light to guide his eyes, he could see it. The crushed chip. The purple smoke. He glared daggers in the pitch black room, unmoved. And as far as he could care, he was going to stay like this as long as he needed.

_“Oh well.”_

A sizzling sound made it way up his arm, and his veins began to glow bright red. He cursed to himself, he pressed his lips together, and his nails dug further and further into his palms until glowing red droplets made their way into the back of his hands. His eyes are glowing, and they burned as if they were thousand-degree knives. He fought the urge to scream and draw attention, lurching forward and clawing at the table for support.

_“ All you had to do was give us what we want.” _

_In case you didn’t realize, that means betraying my admiral and at least half of my friends._

_“ An easy job. What a shame.” _

Dylan shook violently, staring down at the glowing, veiny red strings popping up underneath his arms. He kicked the leg of his chair away, landing butt-first on the cold ground. He no longer felt his hands or legs, and he growled, glowing red light bursting more and more out of him.

“K-kk-argh--ARG---”

**”Dylan.”**

At an instant, the voices in his head scurried away and the redness disappeared. The lights were switched on by a ghostly figured that Dylan could barely catch sight of before his vision went hazy again. His senses came back to him, and the cold air surrounded him as quickly as he could feel. “Brrr” came out without him intending to. He frowned, trying to regain his balance and getting back up on his two feet before inevitably tripping again.

This time, a firm, warm hand caught him by his arm.

“Dylan,” Max started, quiet enough so not to scare him but loud enough for him to hear.

He lifted Dylan up with the sheer strength of his own right arm. Once they were both standing on their feet, Dylan gave a huge exhale, grabbing Max on the shoulder and mumbling “thank you”s underneath his breath. He shook his head a few times to clear himself up, and rose his head to face directly at Max.

“Haha…” he laughed, less for humor and more for cutting the awkward tension. “Am I late to the dinner?”

“No,” Max replied, not at all finding the situation humorous. “It’s in 10 minutes or so. That’s not important right now. You...”

“...will be fine!” Dylan exclaimed. “I promised Ryan to an arm wrestling match. The ladies were very excited to hear about it. Would be a shame if I let them down.”

He let go of his grip on Max’s shoulder and walked to the door. His eyes drooped down to his hand, spots of blood (that weren’t glowy now) dripping down his palm. He cringed, watching the drops fall to the floor one by one before regaining some decency and wiped them down on the side of his pants. Max went close enough to him to see his hands and scoffed, displeased with the way the wound was being treated.

“Uh...sorry for the mess,” said Dylan, moving his hand forward to circle around the handle of the door.

Max did not reply, nor did he move. Accustomed to the silent treatment, Dylan started to open the door, taking a step forward.

“We need to talk about this,” Max’s tone was sturdy and almost forceful.

“I know,” Dylan sighed in exasperation, having heard this conversation before. He took another step, eager to get out of the nagging.

_THWACK!_

Dylan jumped, swiftly turning his head to see his old friend and Commander just behind him, slamming his fist right into the wall. Max glanced up at him, eyes as serious and commanding as ever.

“If I don’t know what’s going on, I won’t be able to keep you up forever,” he gritted through his teeth. “What’s so hard for you to understand?”

Dylan moved his attention to the door handle, and he gripped it tighter. His thumb pressed and molded into the door handle with eased, and he contemplated. He thought about plenty of times that this exact situation had happened. He wondered how many times he had survived through this--dealing against aliens who were trying to control his head. Sometimes, he’d done it alone, glaring daggers at one thing-- _anything--_ until they’d stop talking.

Though other times they didn’t stop. He released his hand, moving to stare at his own wrist down. Recently, they’ve started having a bit more fun. Fireblood lived within him, probably artificially transferred in, no doubt, and they knew how to trigger it just at the right time to channel all the pain into his body.

Well, not all the pain.

Dylan turned back to Max.

“This is now...what, the sixth time this has happened?” Max scowled. “You’re lucky Fobi has some weird ghostly instincts and just somehow knows. You could--”

“Agghhh!” Dylan interrupted. “I know! I’ve dealt with this before. All this glowing red thing has only been there in the last few days. I’m glad you’re around, okay? But this isn’t your problem. I can figure this out myself.”

“Since when did you have medic credentials?” Max retorted smugly.

Dylan stopped.

No reply.

“Exactly,” he resumed. “Now do me a favor and tell me everything that’s been going on, or else I’ll tie you down in the med lab and do it myself.”

They glared at each other for a few minutes, clearly displeased and disappointed at the other’s actions. Max dropped his arm from the wall, walking ever closer and closer to his good old friend until they were but a distance of a coin’s length, daring each other eye to eye.

“...”

“...”

“...fine,” Dylan threw himself back, tired of fighting yet not entirely displeased to compromise. “Leave this till after the dinner party, I don’t want anyone else to be stressed over this. I’ll...come talk to you or something.”

Max agreed, “That’s good enough for me. Deal?”

_Ha, deals. As if he could use anymore of that right now._

Dylan sighed, looking right back up to Max, “Promise.”

He took fast steps out of the door and left swiftly, shaking his head in disbelief. Max stayed in the situation room, looking around and assessing the damage that Dylan had been making. A chair, the table...there was blood on the floor, wait, is that door handle broken?

“For fuck’s sake.”

Fobi laughed, swiftly popping out from nowhere, “The price you have to pay for getting him to crack. Cleanup duty.”

Max brought his right hand up to his forehead, massaging away the stress. “I’ve already got enough business to handle as it is.”

“You just don’t want to clean.”

“No, I don’t,” Max replied, scooping the remnants of a burnt chip off of the table.

Fobi grabbed a napkin off of the table and wiped at the blood eagerly, “Those were some sick heals though. Haven’t seen you pulled off medic like that for a while.”

“And here I was hoping for good sleep tonight,” was the only thing he said before getting back to cleaning.  

* * *

 

“WOAAAAAOOOOWWWW!” the crowd roared in hype as Commander Ryan hooked and slammed Dylan’s gloved hands down on the table, nearly crackling it half. He grinned at his defeated friend, who shook his head and laughed back at him. Behind them both, South Coast General Wesley snapped some shots on his phone, eager to use it for later blackmail. He sniggered as Dylan turned back to give him a disappointed look.

“What?” said Wes, “I’m just going to expose you. Relax.”

“I don’t mean to surprise you, but the last time you did this to me I lost my rank for a week on misappropriate conduct,” Dylan punched him in the knee and he hunched back, laughing his ass off.

Ryan got up and rearranged himself to be seated with the two of them, “Three-two, eh? Close one. Had you not have that glove on, you’d probably have enough grip to deal with me.”

“Since when was arm wrestling more about strategy and less about strength?” Wesley asked, ridiculed by the match review.

“Arm wrestling is an art,” Ryan corrected. “The right tricks will lead you to the right victory.”

Dylan grabbed his drink, “That’s not what you said last time. You said arm wrestling was what defined the strength of man.”

“His opinion changes on a daily basis,” Wes chortled.

Ryan cracked up, picking up an hors d’oeuvres from a nearby waiter, “That’s basically me alright.”

Dylan scoffed, bringing the drink up to his face to chug it. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Max fiddling on his phone and looking awfully serious. He frowned, drowning out the attention of both of the men by his side, and found temptation in standing up and approaching his old friend to ask what was going on. Fobi was at Max’s side, almost invisible to the human eye, and he seemed to be whispering at him before…

Oh.

Max stared back at him, eyes shined with pleased curiosity. Agitated by the most positive expression on Max’s face, Dylan pierced back, channeling all the “ _what the fuck do you think you’re doing”_ eyes right back to the other man. They were at opposite sides of the room, but their attention did not divide amongst the crowd that carried in between, dancing and celebrating in drunken haziness. For almost 5 minutes, their gazes remained this way, until words flew from Wes’s mouth.

“Wow. Sexual tension.”

Dylan hacked and gasped, clogging a full swig of water in his throat. He spat it out and turned to Wes, who was incredibly amused. Dylan stood up, looking positively embarrassed with a dash of killing intent. Next to him, Ryan wheezed, eyes darting back and forth at the two men who had been glaring at each other throughout the span of 30 meters in the length of an entire 5 minutes.

Dylan’s eyes were angry, then full of shock, then discomfort. He sat back down, face into the palms of his hands and ears flushing a bright red.

“Uggghh,” Dylan groaned, his voice muffled into his hands. “Tell me you didn’t record that.”

Wesley freezed, tucking away his phone in a flash, “What, whaaatt? What recording? Noo, of course nooot! I would never commit such a crime!”

“ _Ring ring. Ring, RING. OHOOHOO, ring. Ring ring, riiiiiiing. Hello? Ri--”_

“Luna’s voice is your ringtone?” Ryan questioned, thoroughly weirded out by the voice of his fellow lieutenant saying “ring” in different pitches over and over again. Dylan groaned, picking up his phone and swiping to unlock it.

Wes cackled, “She changed it this morning without him noticing. I saw! I was there.”

Dylan muttered curses under his breath, giving up on convincing Wes to do anything else entirely. He switched his attention over to his phone, where a small message darted over the screen.

**_Edge of left corridor, on the very end._ **

“What does that mean?” Wes said, peering over his shoulder. Dylan moved away, his eyes up again trailing Max who only gave him a quick smirk before starting out the door. He placed down his drink, eyes not leaving the Commander until the last of his blue coat disappeared out the door. He straightened himself and breathed, standing to face towards the exit.

“I’ve got business to tend to,” he waved off at Ryan and Wes and walked away. “See you guys around. Have fun.”

“...”

Wes and Ryan stared at each other, not fully knowing how to handle this in a responsible, adult-like manner. Wes succumbed first, blatantly stating the obvious of what they were both thinking as Dylan left.

“They’re going to fuck,” he said, deadpan.

“No they’re not,” Ryan responded. “Dylan’s not gay.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I do.”

“Have you fucked him?”

“No…?”

“Then how would you know?”

“What?”

“Exactly.”

* * *

“So?” Max commenced, sitting in the chair before him.

There they were, in a bare closet-sized room that had been repurposed for interrogation. Max sat down in front of a dusty bookshelf, no doubt property of the old admiral before Cyclone took on the role. Between them laid a cheap, plastic dusty table. Likewise, Dylan refused to sit on the chairs in the opposite ends of the table, purely because he did not want this to feel like an interrogation. His fingers are clutched onto the edge of the cold wood chair, and he stood, looking at Max from a much higher advantage.

Dylan exhaled exasperatedly, probably the tenth time today. “Fine. Just…”

Max waited patiently, not dropping eye contact with the man before him. They stared at each other, looking for any doubts in trust in their eyes, but it was far too dark for them to be able to tell anything. Only the light of the moon was their company, and even then it was still dim, shining on neither of them.

“I’m a clone,” Dylan bursted out.

Stillness continued and Max didn’t seem surprise. He continued to stay silent, waiting for Dylan to say anything else, but nothing transpired between the two of them. Frowning, he leaned forward and started to speak again.

“We all know that,” Max said. “No offense, but it’s in your na--”

“No, Max. I’m being for real here,” Dylan interrupted. “That nickname was more of a joke, made between you, me, and some other people, but…”

“But what?” Max leaned in closer, elbows resting firmly on the table and fists tied together. “What does this have to do with your condition? I don’t understa--”

“Three years ago, Max!” Dylan cried, voice rising and tenseness striking on his chest. “When I left for the mission with former Admiral Dumpling’s team, remember? I--”

“Yes, I know! The mission where you were regarded as a hero!” Max stood up, hands slamming onto the slanted table and keeping his confused eyes at Dylan.

“That’s where I got this!” Dylan pulled a glove forcefully from his hand and pulled his sleeve down, showing Max the glowing red veins from his wrist. “THIS! This is proof that I’m not human, Max. I don’t know what happened during that mission, but I was sent down there, and I came out like this. I only remember half my life, or at least what I spent with you guys. Dumpling knows I’m supposed to be dead--she saw me. That’s why she’s been so distant, and--”

“You need to calm the fuck down,” Max replied. “Factory production of clones is impossible. I’d understand the reports of bioweapons, coming from Cyclone, but--”

“I have no fucking clue what happened down there,” Dylan tensed, circling around the edges of the table to veer closer to Max. “No one from the clan told me. All I got was some temporary suspension, and now there are voices in my head and fuck knows what boiling in my blood. Is this even considered blood? I’m not even human anymore! How the f--”

**_“GAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGHHHHHHH!”_ **

Both of them paused, alert and cautious of their surroundings. Dylan scowled, opening the door to peek around if there were any perpetrators, “This better not be a huge prank, or else someone is going to have to be fire--”

“Dylan,” Max called, and the signaled person turned back to look at him. “For what it’s worth, you are still human in mind. You did the right thing back there, destroying the chip.”

Dylan stared at him, surprised at the given response. Then again, this was Max. He supposed the Commander never failed to find the right thing to say given situations like this. He laughed hollowly.

“...thanks. We’ll continue this later,” he said quietly. Max nodded.

Dylan turned back to the open hallway and walked out, intending to fully find out what was going on. He took a right step forward, and the entire ship suddenly swerved, sending him face full to the wall of the boat. He immediately glimpsed at the window next, the outside dark and showing the depths of the ocean below. In another few seconds, the ship rocked back, sending him over to the other wall. This time, he was prepared, holding on to one of the pipes and jumping back for support.

Whatever this is was definitely not a joke.

The sirens blared from above, and red flashed all over the halls of the ship. The party attendants ran away quickly, screeching and screaming to get it together and prepare for battle.

“Max!” he ran back, slamming the door to the interrogation room away. “We have a threat, you need to--”

The bookshelf.

He looked down, shocked and silent.

In the swerving moment of the ship, the shelf had fallen and entirely collapsed on the great Commander Scaro. Dylan rushed over, chest feeling heavy and head flowing with too many thoughts to pick up. He shoved the books aside with barely any force, and lifted his friend up. Max was entirely unconscious, a flow of blood drooping out of the back of his head. Dylan pulled him over against the wall, letting him lean there as he assess the rest of the room for any potential disasters like the bookshelf. Then, he switched his attention back to Max, who was barely breathing and most notably, not at all awake.

“Shit.”

  



End file.
